


we are history, your shadow covers me

by thissupposedcrime



Series: wish we could sing no regrets, no emotional debt [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Multi, Pining James, Season Seven spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-30 11:45:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15751020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thissupposedcrime/pseuds/thissupposedcrime
Summary: People will say they're in love.Or, how James loses a war.Keith went down swinging before James could solve his mysteries. Lieutenant Shirogane is the only one who did, and now his death is a pall darkening the classrooms, the flight manifests, the  Commander’s face.Lieutenant Shirogane, whose final act of defiance against the Garrison was to steal Keith from them.James wonders how the hell they all wound up on this path, the Garrison and its frustrated bereavement and James, wanting to see Keith’s face again, wanting even more desperately to forget it.





	we are history, your shadow covers me

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me how many titles I went through (Tears Dry on Their Own by Amy Winehouse)
> 
> One-sided Keith/James (except there’s a bunch of AU dreams where it’s legit), outsider POV of Sheith, massive spoilers for vld s7
> 
> Dedicated to my lovely Charlotte, who was my friend half a lifetime ago in a different fic writing fandom and remains so today. Sorry trash is what I give you and I didn't fully reach my potential with this despite our many, many conversations.

James’ growth spurt slams into him first, a dark kiss that rockets across his spine and budget allocation for new uniforms. Female cadets giggle and gasp over the new angles shaping his face. Supply closets are their friends during the nights, remote and quiet as James enjoys his popularity and the girls the way his hands cradle their hips, _tight_.

None of that matters now. None of that matters here.

The waves lap rhythmically, gentle against the beach, a lulling sound. It’s quiet in a way the Galaxy Garrison can only dream of, no harsh metal clangs, jet fighter thrusters, or screaming students. Instead, it is James reclining on a blanket, protected from the bright day by an umbrella. If he turns his head in either direction, there is nothing but endless sand or water or blue sky.

Nothing but James, and _him_.

Keith walks out of the water, carelessly obscene in the way the water droplets slide down his firm stomach, make his legs glisten. Regardless of the looks James gets, and he gets them, there isn’t a force on Earth more powerful than the stretch of Keith’s legs, the tightening of his muscles and the shape of them. James is a good Garrison boy, but those legs are the great temptation of his life.

Time at the Garrison has proven James isn’t the sole victim consumed with how Keith is almost all leg, but James alone presses fingertips to them as Keith collapses next to him on the blanket. Only James gets to turn on his side and slide a palm past Keith’s knee to a smooth thigh. His thumb digs in tiny circles, consumed with the knowledge a desert brat like Keith can be so creamy pale in such a pretty place.

Keith sighs, not loud but sweet, compliant as James presses slightly higher. James has desire rippling through him, and a goal to survey every inch in a hunt for the ghosts of him imprinted on Keith, for the future claims he’ll soon place.

He has time. So does Keith, but impatience thrums in his veins, prompts him to swing a leg over James’ side, straddling his waist. He can’t bring himself to complain about the loss of warmth along his side when his hand itches to grab a fistful of Keith’s hair and pull him down. It’s shorter now, Garrison appropriate and well-kept, though a simple brush would have gone a long way in improving the Keith James first met, so his perspective is skewed in the best of ways. Wind and water have made a mess of it, but it just forces James to hold tighter, spool hair around his fingers as he forces Keith down to meet him against the sand.

Keith follows, nipping gently against his neck, and it’s a nice change of pace, not having to chase him.

Yet that hasn’t been their status quo in ages, since James settled Keith down. He’s gotten better at respecting the chain of command, doesn’t harass Iverson but says ‘yes sir!’ properly, like the rest of them. He listens to James, and it feels a bit like taming a dog who selectively listens to people, but there’s effort enough. No more outbursts, no more fights, no more warring within James on if he wants to kick or kiss Keith’s face. Keith is becoming what James and the Garrison wanted, reshaping the spark of him.

Keith’s lips and teeth are trailing lower, past his neck, and leaving a path of fire everywhere with a warm mouth and lingering hands. James wants him to keep going lower, and reaches down to encourage him, lightly tugging on his nipple before moving to press his shoulders down. Keith whines, still sweet as before, and takes orders admirably. He wiggles to reposition himself at the edge of the blanket, cheeks flushed and pretty eyes wide as his chin rests at the bottom of James’ trunk shorts. James swallows a moan.

“Good,” James says as Keith’s hand slips inside to stroke up and down. “Good boy.” He repeats himself again and again as Keith continues moving with his hand, switches it with his mouth.

And then he wakes up, sweating, aching, and moments away from needing new sheets.

* * *

Commander Iverson and the other higher-ups aren’t subtle in their goals for him, their hopes he can be the next Takashi Shirogane. His scores aren’t Keith’s, a fact all involved mutually lament, but only he has the disposition and loyalty to complete any mission without question, nor complaint. Despite the multiple marks staining his permanent record, the admiral board look on favorably, as the fights were in defense of the Garrison’s honor.

Staff go out of their way to assure him Keith’s flight prowess doesn’t mean much considering his relationship with authority.

Unfortunately, no one explained that preparing himself to become the next Lieutenant Shirogane would give him the irresistible urge to make his precious pet project be good, not just for the Garrison, but for James, make him be _good_ in ways James doesn’t think are possible.

Maybe this is a mark of a true leader. You face reality only after fantasizing the weight of potential.

He and Keith can be the future, if only Keith would get on board and look forward at someone _other_ than the man who set him on his path.

James tells himself during the difficult days, as he puzzles apart the enigma and reality, this is a futile endeavor, and Keith isn’t worth the time. This odd quest is purely counterproductive. He doesn’t need Keith as an ally to surpass him.

(Hindsight, painted in Galra blood and sniper rifle shots, knows otherwise.)

But the temptation of what they can build together, the way Keith alone inspires him to work harder, is impossible to ignore. There’s a reason why so many successful Garrison pilots are known for their teamwork, their interpersonal skills, especially Lieutenants Shirogane and West.

Part of Keith won’t let him be beat, and that fact alone engulfs James, young and foolish.

Only when it no longer matters does James realize he’ll always be chasing that future, the high of Keith, in whatever way he can have him.

* * *

After long nights of courses and flight practice, sometimes James prefers the tangible thickness of a physical datapad to the holographs he usually works with. It’s the solid feeling that helps shake the sleep out of his eyes, and, on one rare occasion near finals week, the crash of his tablet falling to the ground, waking him.

Keith is puttering around in the bathroom, but he’s never been a noisy distraction, all soft steps and stubborn silences. James isn’t sure why Keith followed him to his private bunk, empty with Kinkade in the medical wing with a nasty flu. No one ever knows what he’s thinking, and the fact James recognizes that is why he’s remained when all others have been dismissed.

It’s been weeks since they were alone like this. James refuses to skip class to makeout on the roof they can only access because Keith picked the lock, for many reasons. Unfortunately, Keith in turn refuses to socialize in the dorms or linger on the premises longer than the bare minimum required. For right now, James doesn’t want to know where he disappears to, for both their sakes.

God, imagining Lieutenant Shirogane’s face as he interrupts James’ meeting with Commander Iverson about turning in the guy he’s been screwing for half a year is almost enough to make him forget Keith is in the room.

Neither of them are walking out of that meeting clean, the Lieutenant taking another hit on his reputation to usher Keith out of trouble, and Commander Iverson never looking at him the same way again, having a weird courtship with the resident problem child despite everything they want for James.

Briefly, James thinks of asking Keith to quiz him on terms for Applied Astrophysics, but the bastard will totally spend time making sly faces or be concerningly indifferent to the process, meaning James will spend more time dissecting his face then remembering the test answers.

Fuck, but he’s got a face worth staring at. This is what James is thinking when the door swings open and Keith comes into focus, leaning against the doorway.

In James’ shirt.

Only in James’ shirt, already a bit large on him so he can layer under it. It’s warm against the early morning chill on days they’re allowed to visit nearby cities, frantically ditching uniforms for civies. The dark fabric barely covers the curve of Keith’s ass, and the wide neck slides down, offering a tantalizing peek of shoulder.

“I want to ride you,” Keith tells him from the doorway, nonchalant. He truly doesn’t seem concerned that James’ brain is now broken, his mouth wide open.  

“Okay,” the only smart part of James manages to croak, functioning for one last swan song of victory.

“Useless,” Keith whispers, mostly to himself, as he joins James on the bed, using his new position to shove James against the mattress.

Soon after this dream, James starts keeping tissues under his pillow, his subconscious now reluctant to wake him.

* * *

James wants to be a leader, do good in the world. Growing pains strike hard against even noble wishes.

James spends a shameful amount of energy ignoring the fact he dreams about Keith. It’s a gift to himself, focusing on the daily struggle. If his subconscious wants to put him through the regularly scheduled teenage bullshit, it picked a hell of a nightmare to lust over. But he wouldn’t have succeeded thus far in the Garrison if he didn’t know how to repress, to distract by throwing himself into simulation practices that earn him praise. Sometimes, when the textbooks aren't enough, he indulges in the attention and girls, and occasionally guys, who want what he wants from them and nothing more, nothing to lose sleep over.

The dreams about Keith get worse around the time Kerberos is announced, planned to send the best and brightest to the furthest corner of their solar system.

They’ll take Lieutenant Shirogane too. That's another mark against Keith, distorting the hero they idolize into the one man capable of defending the devil. Capable of leashing him and setting him loose too.

They all wake up aspiring to be Takashi Shirogane: strong, kind, noble, even before their lives as cadets begin.

That first morning at the Galaxy Garrison, James thinks the past is gone, a distant emo kid in a presumably broken machine.

Then, the past trots alongside a premier pilot, scant seconds away from being late.

James doesn't always begrudge the Lieutenant for being blinded by the promise of Keith. He shone for him. He continues to shine for him, covered in sand and sitting atop a throne of broken records.

It's understandable.

Yet something in James goes unsettled thinking of the way Keith looks at ‘Shiro'.

He can’t explain it.

(He won't allow himself to, until lions fall from the sky.)

* * *

Sometimes, they find themselves in an alley in Plaht City. James isn’t sure how old they’re supposed to be, but the only point that matters is the togetherness, the rewarded free time due to their successes in space. Music croons out from a nearby bar, and James twirls Keith in a clumsy circle he makes graceful, effortless. Keith laughs. Scents from the Italian restaurant seep into the air, but Keith is the only taste James has on his tongue.

Keith is trouble here, hand tugging on his collar until he follows him down the alley, further from the lights on the street. It’s the people Keith wants away from. Whenever James tries to pull apart, Keith leans up and kisses him, fast and messy. What Keith doesn’t know is James would never fight him on this, just wants him pressed tight and eager.

Eventually, Keith wins, but he always does in these situations. James always wins too. Legs are wrapped around his waist, a not so gentle circle trying to edge him on. A heel digs into James’ lower back, spurring him to press closer to Keith, press Keith closer to the wall so there’s not even an inch of space between them.

It doesn’t take James long to realize Keith likes being surrounded, takes him even less time to realize how much he likes being the center of Keith’s attention.

“James,” Keith whines, mildly petulant. James dips his mouth against the soft skin of Keith’s throat, smiling.

It doesn’t stop Keith from grinding against him. James is also quickly realizing Keith wants what he wants, and Keith wants to give it all to him.

Until he wakes.

* * *

Kerberos launches.

Keith doesn’t deign to share space with his classmates when not required, burned those bridges in his first few weeks and swept away the ashes to follow cleanly after Lieutenant Shirogane. Losing him temporarily to the stars has done nothing to encourage Keith to look for companionship elsewhere. It is the one solace James has.

James would shake out of his skin if Keith had an epiphany when Shirogane left about needing more in his life in terms of personal relationships. James only wants him for his skill in battle, even if he has to coax the humanity out of him when he’s not being a bastard.

That doesn’t happen. In hindsight, James will wonder if it was the true beginning of the end, but, in the present, the tempest of Keith is the salvation of James’ sanity.

He watches Keith dance along the knife’s edge of insubordination and ignores that the staffers closest to Shirogane give Keith the most leeway, except Lieutenant West, who Keith takes pride in tormenting.

If James occasionally repeats a mantra about not wasting his time on that disaster outside of career focus (and then needing to prove to himself Keith is a disaster), that’s James’ secret.

He prays to the Gods that forsaked him the day Keith crossed his line of view to keep his fantasies about sex and not holding his hand.

* * *

“Just a warning, but I told Kinkade camping was your idea, so if the Garrison’s best pilots go missing, everyone knows who to blame,” James says as he gathers kindling. The quiet green of the trees is another facet of Keith’s nature, and he won’t interrupt his man from delivering a tent to fight back the evening chill.

The orgasm he coaxed out of Keith against a nearby tree earlier wasn’t an expression of uncontrollable love. No one but James needs to remember how badly his attempted tent set up went.

“Duly noted,” Keith replies. The muscles in his back flex as he reaches down to check a stake in the ground. “Did you collect the right firewood?”

Well, it’s wood. “Yes,” James tell him with confidence he doesn’t deserve. “It’s okay if it’s a little damp, right?”

His response makes Keith laugh, a quiet huff as he tilts his head away so James doesn’t notice his smile. It haunts James every moment they aren’t together.

“City boy,” Keith calls out, fondness curling around the syllabus and across James’ cheeks despite the ten foot distance between them.

“So are you,” James says instead of dropping everything to palm the back of Keith’s neck. It's a tempting thought.

“Firefighter’s kid too,” Keith reminds him. As if James could forget the terrifying figure he’s spent weeks trying to impress since Keith deemed him worthy enough to meet the family.

Better make the most of the alone time, he thinks at the reminder of looming parental affection. He lets the sticks tumble from his hands in favor of grabbing Keith around the waist for another round.

* * *

James is _trying_ , and he’s never felt more pathetic admitting something to himself, months after Kerberos launches.

Keith is a tactical challenge, a tactical nightmare. There’s no other way to articulate it. Even the first sentence James offers is fraught with tension. He wonders whether to pose it as a question or demand. Either will get ignored, but the rationale is key, the exploited soft spot even more so.

James is going to get his ass kicked, and no one will avenge him because it’s his fault.

He and Keith are usually the last ones out of the simulators these days, top of their class in flight maneuvers and, in James’ case, fast tracked to a position of leadership. Instructors keep him their to learn. Certain instructors keep Keith there because, well, where else would they put him? When he’s not on campus, he’s starlight in the desert because Lieutenant Shirogane’s magic lingers enough for night patrol to overlook his favorite’s late night arrivals.

“Wanna spar?” Discretion is the better part of valor, a lesson James knows well from Mr. Harris’ lengthy speeches. He’s been lingering in his pseudo ship for nearly ten minutes, waiting for Keith to conclude without it looking like he has a plot. He purposefully rammed into an asteroid belt after faking a sneeze so the recordings wouldn’t question his moves. Lights blaring Mission Failure on the screen halo his head from where James stands. Keith’s smart, and that realization is part of the devastation he causes the school. But here, now, the screen is a flare bright signal that James has motive to fight, isn’t being selective about Keith. He shouldn’t second guess.

“No thanks,” Keith says. James didn’t think it was possible to express both dismissive disinterest and cockiness in the same tone, same uncaring expression, but Keith continues to defy expectations.

It’s been over a year since Keith first utilized collective punishment to craft a barrier between him and the other cadets. And while a bitter, ugly part of James is a firecracker sparked to life by Keith’s clear assumption he’s not worth the time, fueled further by the lingering moments he didn’t see the future in Keith’s skill, in his newfound desire to be a team...James can’t blame him for the rejection.

History has never looked favorably on them.

He thinks of shouting “What’s your problem?” but never let it be said James needs to learn a lesson twice. Just because his hormonal psyche equates a kiss with a fist doesn’t mean he does in the waking hours.

“Look,” and he pushes past what he expects from Keith when it comes to James, “Commander Iverson wants the best, and we’re it of the _cadets_.” Like James is dumb enough to give Keith a means to praise Lieutenant Shirogane right now.

“Yeah. And?” Keith stares at him, and James feels a conflict war within, thinking Keith’s silence about them being the best isn’t acceptance but dull boredom.

“And we need to work together. It’s obvious I can make it without you, and you me but there’s a reason Lieutenants Shirogane and West rose through the ranks.” Immediately, James realizes this is the wrong course of action. Keith is tense. A feral look darts across his face before he shakes his head, and the expression, away. There’s no turning back, now, though, so what choice does he have but to continue?

“The Lieutenants proved teamwork, adaptability, and everything else Commander Iverson wants. We need to work with the best to surpass them. Aren’t you tired of waiting around for him? Isn’t it time you found someone else to impress?” Keith is seemingly frozen as James finishes, but it’s not out of shock or fear. It’s the way a predator is indecisive in how they’ll tear apart your jugular.

“Shiro is incomparable. He’ll always be the best pilot, the best man the Galaxy Garrison ever has. Nothing can change that, especially you,” Keith starts, stepping forward. James remains in front of the simulator, physically cornered, but this isn’t the version of Keith about to throw a punch. “I don’t care what Iverson says. Shiro is _it_.”

Of course _he_ is.

“The admirals are idiots if they think I want to be like _Adam_ ,” Keith continues, scorn evident, shocking. “Unlike him, I won’t quit.” Jesus. Keith says it with a terrifyingly firm tone, staring past the simulator, probably through the walls to the launch site Keith alone attended with his Lieutenant Shirogane.

Apparently, James was wrong to assume Lieutenant Shirogane was key to victory. He’s just a swift death of whatever James wanted. He no longer remembers.

“People will say you’re in love,” James croons, bitter and so unlike him he almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, or feel his mouth move.

People already do, and the irony is James thought himself above caring besides using it as motive to jarr Keith out of complacency against the Garrison.

The punch is expected, and it stings despite blocking the worst of it with a forearm.

Keith doesn’t go for the easy second attempt, though his clenched fist twitches ominously. “Find some other hero to idolize, because you won’t surpass Shiro. Don’t insult him by thinking otherwise.” He turns to walk away, and it must be Shiro’s influence keeping James from turning into a bruised puddle on the floor.

“Wait!” James lunges for Keith’s wrist, manages to clutch most of it in his hand. It’s warmer and smaller than James expected for someone who knocks boys out with one hit. He’s soft.

Keith glares, eyes so dark they look purple, mouth a firm line. Tremors shake through his shoulders like he’s a lightning rod of aggression. He's the most vivid thing James has ever encountered.

This is a supernova, and James is out of his league if he hopes to guide him.

James leans forward, as if he expects Keith to whisper something, close the gap between them. Maybe he wants more. Maybe Keith is too lovely for both their good. Even he doesn't know what this temporary second of quiet means.

It’s a kick to the shins and escaping his grip like smoke, the touch of him ephemeral then impossible to remember.

It’s the worst kind of goodbye, ugly and expected even if he didn’t think to anticipate this scenario.

Two days later, Kerberos fails to report in.

* * *

Torrential downpour does nothing to describe the weather. James is shuffling around his bookbag for his umbrella, as he walks out of the hallways and through the exit of the school.

The rain is so thick he can’t even see out into the parking lot, no headlights or students rushing for cover. Beating down on the ground with a heavy roar, rain silences the screams of people getting wet, the harsh blares of car horns or slippery tires.

Keith remains under the school’s overhang, watching the rain. Unlike the frantic environment James assumes is waiting for them, Keith isn’t just calm, unperturbed, but smiling.

“What’s so interesting about the water?” It’s James, teasing in a way he keeps unique for Keith. Popularity settles well on his letterman clad shoulders, but that’s never prevented him from gravitating towards Keith.

“You don’t think it’s soothing?” And it’s such a Keith answer, James bends down to place his smile against the back of Keith’s neck. While there, he presses a gentle kiss against the skin, nudging past the damp curl of his hair.

“Showered after gym class?” Keith’s dry otherwise, but James is more concerned with wrapping an arm around his waist to nestle him in front of James.

Nodding gently so he doesn’t displace James, Keith sags against him, trusting James to keep him upright. It earns him another kiss, this time on the shell of his ear.

“Want me walk you to the car?” Keith drove the motorcycle. James and his Dad know in their bones he can handle it with an easy that would impress professionals, but it doesn’t mean he’s thrilled using his body to prevent the seat from getting wet, or that they want him to. “We can wrap your bike in the tarp, and I’ll swing by in the morning to bring you to school. Maybe get breakfast on that diner off West Street?”

“James Griffin waking up early? Warn your mom so she doesn’t think you’re dying,” Keith says with the rudeness of a morning person.

“If I tell her it’s to see you, she’ll understand...no, wait, she’ll insist I bring you home.” Mrs. Griffin _loves_ Keith, maybe more than James does. Once, he overheard her warn his aunt to prepare his cousins to date Keith if James gives him reason to dump her stupid son.

He’s insulted his mom thinks James isn’t gripping with both hands. The fact she wants to keep Keith in the family is completely understandable though.

Keith can never find out about this.

From the cocky way he’s staring at James and the laughter, James realizes his family isn’t subtle. At all.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“We’ll do breakfast. But let’s stay here. I want to enjoy the weather a bit longer.”

James adjusts his hold on Keith to reach for his hands, holding them as his arms circle his waist, heads leaning against each other to watch the rain.

* * *

The Kerberos crew doesn’t return.

Pilot Error claims Keith too.

Better people don’t call it a surprise, just a nasty crash after a long, disastrous tailspin.

They aren’t wrong, but James isn’t thinking rationally. Or maybe he’s the only one who is tonight, Keith's departure so abruptly recent some act like it's a gossipy rumor waiting to be proven.

Frustration slowly creeps out of the Garrison during the day with Keith gone, as if James is absorbing the emotion into his own skin in his attempt to reconcile waking with Keith there, and waking with him gone.

Cadets burns out. The Garrison demands the best and discards the rest. Keith marches out, inglorious.

These are facts.

Yet Keith was never so plain to belong to the supposed others, the abandoned insignificant. And maybe James got a little too attached to a boy who tried to break his jaw, but there was something there, something more than a few foolish hopes James tried to ignore.

There was a unquenchable wish that Keith could settle, Keith could be more than whatever Shirogane saw in him. He could stand alongside James in the record books, in the classroom, in the missions.

He could look away from Lieutenant Shirogane.

The loss of potential, the loss of challenge is what upsets him, James decides in the fluorescent lighting of the Garrison hallways before breakfast.

Nights are colder, implacable in their demands for his attention, for his truth.

Sometimes, he pictures himself and Keith, different people and different lives, situations reversed. Maybe Keith’s parents never die, and James is the seemingly careless rebel with the perfect scores. They’re still opposites, but thrown together in the classes, in their desires, in the books they compete to borrow first in the library. They remain kindred spirits in a way this universe hasn’t deemed them, unrealized, or one becomes a phantom the other can’t touch.

But James can’t see that world clearly, can only envision that version of himself suffering to win against Keith, suffering to win him too.

He does not think about their last conversation.

He just thinks of how pointless it is to spend time not moving on.

(How pointless it is to need to move on.)

* * *

James exploits Keith’s lack of popular culture with mercenary effectiveness. Cute children’s films about animals in particular are a tragically sizable gap in Keith’s knowledge. Normally a source of frustration that serves as a reminder to all Keith lost, it’s finally working in James’ favor as he plots out a birthday present.

Keith is passed out in bed. James purposefully exhausted him to the best of his considerable abilities as soon as Keith went to take a shower after dinner, James shedding clothes through the house in a scramble to join him.

Next year he’s not doing another surprise gift like this, he swears, knowing he’ll seize the opportunity again and again, despite any inconvenience or price.

James is hiding in the garage, behind the partition they use to separate Keith’s bike from the general clutter neither is willing to sort through.

Once, Keith resolutely informed him he had every intention of dying before dealing with the countless boxes marked miscellaneous, stacked high to the ceiling.

That had been James’ plan too.

But now the source of his home owning anxiety has finally proven a useful spot to store Keith’s gift.

The puppy is flopped on her back, tail frantically waving as James rubs her stomach. Her red ears are silky smooth but struggle to stay upright. She’s seemingly forgiven him for leaving her to the tender mercy of the vet’s shots and general check-ups. He catches a paw in his hand. The local shelter only knows she’s a mutt, but seeing how much of her paw fills James’ hands, he knows she’ll be grow big.

Good.

The distances between he and Keith are manageable after years of practice, stolen moments between missions into space, divergent paths as they settle into different careers at the Garrison.

Manageable doesn’t mean easy.

Manageable doesn’t mean lonely.

James wants a warm body to curl around Keith in the winter weeks he’s not there, a grounding source of affection after the phone has been hung up and Keith is alone in their empty house. He wants the sound of Keith’s laughter when James stumbles over a dog bone, the twist of his lips as he kisses James in gratitude for walking the dog so Keith can sleep in.

He wants Keith, happy, always.

He also wants the puppy to settle down long enough to put the ribbon around her neck. James has ambitions. At midnight, he wants to coax Keith awake and gently place the package in his arms.

Movies haven’t ruined this type of surprise, and James is worried she will. The ribbon is dangerously close to slipping off, and she whines as soon as the box’s lid closes, despite his hushing noises.

Keith cannot see an upset animal. It will break his heart and James’ back as he's banished to the couch.

Finally, James gives up, pressing a kiss to the soft fur of her head as she licks his face.

“Okay, fine, I’ll just drop you on the bed and let you go wild. Honestly, it’ll be really amusing for me. But now I’m not going to stop him from naming you something weird, alright?”

Minutes later, James is buried under one tiny dog desperate to get between her new fathers, and one very happy birthday boy, arms thrown around James’ shoulders and lips against his.

Keith dubs her Cassiopeia, and all their coworkers give them hell for her space name.

Worth it, James thinks, coming home after taking an early flight to see them passed out on the couch, waiting for his return.

* * *

New pilot classes join the Garrison. They pluck someone from the cargo section and throw him into Keith’s spot, though James and some other cadets are so far past the course work, they don’t interact.

He doesn’t move on, because there is nothing to move on from.

It was shock thinking otherwise, electricity in his veins and paralyzing him for just a moment.

All it takes is another moment to reorient himself, pilot training coming out of a disorienting spiral: he met a boy of fire and frustration who went out of his way to flaunt the rules. Keith could fly. Keith could maim. Keith could push them all away. And he did all three. So James, and everyone else, loathed him for his talents, looked down upon him for his disregard, wanted to pull him apart to pry out his secrets and discard him into the dust. They did all three, or at the least the first two. Keith went down swinging before James could solve his mysteries.

Lieutenant Shirogane is the only one who could, and now his death is a pall darkening the classrooms, the flight manifests, the twitches in Commander Iverson’s face.

Lieutenant Shirogane whose final act of defiance against the Garrison was to steal Keith.

The mourning gets easier when James remembers the way Lieutenant West, the ex boyfriend and flight partner, stood at attention when they explained Lieutenant Shirogane’s illness, spelled out pilot error in medical diagnosis and foolish pride.

No wonder he and Keith gravitated to each other, sun, moon, planet, pulling and attracting while everyone else were distant stars.

He thinks he might one day hate Lieutenant Shirogane. Now, he wonders how the hell they all wound up on this path, the Garrison and its annoyed bereavement and James, waiting to see Keith’s face again, waiting even more impatiently to forget it.

If even the dazzling Lieutenant Shirogane, of the shiny records and the soft spot for leggy cadets, couldn’t survive without the Garrison’s structure and support, what the hell hope do the rest of them have?

The Galaxy Garrison necessitates respect and understanding to the commands of superiors. James won’t again mistake the siren call of a maverick’s potential.

Especially Keith, tarnished and vanished.

So James works. So James pilots. So James leads.

So James doesn’t think of him.

* * *

James walks through the mall. Civilians are entering and exiting the food court. Children huddle around the entrance of a candy store, exchanging pieces. Advertisements glisten then transform as time passes.

A woman tries on a pair of heels, frowning in contemplation. A man stares in the mirror, grabbing at his hat to check out the different angles. Someone’s balloon floats to the glass ceiling, escaping its young charge’s tenuous grip.

When James glances at his reflection in the mall fountain, he doesn’t see the cadet uniform, the slope of his shoulders, the dark brown of his hair.

He sees Keith in a red jacket, amused and looking past James. He’s still lovely, but the water distorts the color of his eyes, the clever smirk James hoped to find _something_ in.

After a blink, Keith is gone, but James has already withdrawn into the crowd.

This is how he dreams now, rarely, if ever, and forgotten by the dawn’s light.

* * *

Cadets go missing. That’s...new in a way few things ever have been in the Garrison. Many of his peers have effectively lost their minds, gossiping in the halls and spreading rumors about lions and aliens. Staff dismiss concerns as Commander Iverson’s teeth permanently grind down. Some professors are limping around, wounded, and it doesn’t take a talented astro explorer to connect the two events.

James keeps his head down, continues to pilot, the courses and the star charts bastions of reliability.

Admiral Sanda arrives, and the roar of the cadet classes grows louder. Someone mutters about lions but no one has a clue what that means.

James continues to _stay out of it_ until ordered otherwise. If occasionally he stares down the more incredulous ideas other students share, that’s still following orders to not create problems or distract from the daily lives in the Garrison with baseless accusations or theories.

Right before a class on advanced history of aviation, weeks later, a young woman launches herself into a chair three feet away from where James sits, waiting for Professor Montgomery. She’s one of the younger students and shouldn’t be in this part of the building. Wisps of straw colored hair escape her bun as she wildly bounces in place, the force of her waving arms enough to send papers on a nearby desk floating to the ground.

The other students turn in interest to watch. Ryan Kinkade, one of his bunkmates, sighs behind him, likely the only other one seeing this end poorly. Ina Leifsdottir doesn’t look up from her datapad, pretending to be blessedly unconcerned, but that’s it. Everyone else is drawn in like sharks tasting blood in the water. James leans forward to catch the mystery girl if she plummets into the isle, the chair squeaking ominously as the crowd grows.

Shaking with anticipation, the girl exhales, then straightens her spine, a proud line about to deliver words of equivalent importance to a prophesy, or something, James isn’t the English major in his family.

A hush falls over the crowd, and James privately vows to trust none of them on his future teams.

“Keith Kogane,” the girl starts, and James’ neck snaps up, audibly, to stare her down. Kinkade grunts, but James ignores that potential commentary or how Leifsdottir peers at him from the corner of her eye, reading material forgotten. People gasp in awed shock from the two words alone, as if Keith is a taboo subject vanquished and sent to a forgotten realm and not a pain in the ass most have known for at least a year.

“Keith Kogane,” she begins again, letting the anticipation build, “was the one who escaped with the missing cadets and beat up the faculty.”

Pandamonium is a charitable description of the room, even before the screaming begins. Three people rush out to spread the news, halting only when the girls calls out, “You didn’t hear it from me but the officers’ lounge! Which is where I got it!” Others are harassing the girl on the chair for more details. In a cluster of desks in the corner, five students are rapidly going back and forth on what other rumors might be true. Keith is a game changer, always has been.

Kinkade stares at the ceiling and Leifsdottir her readings. They’re not close enough to call him on his bullshit, but it’s almost comforting to know they would elect not to otherwise.

“Need I remind you Keith Kogane assaulted a superior officer, made a laughing stock of all of us with his scores and attitude, and would never have returned for three random cadets?” James finally calls out to break up the crowd. Most of them grow quietly contemplative. Some probably remember there was only one person Keith would have claimed, and it sure wasn’t Pidge Gunderson.

He’s not wrong, and that’s what calms the room right before their professor arrives.

If Leifsdottir watches him during class as if she can diagnosis the ashy taste in his mouth or the struggle to say Keith’s name, that’s her business.

* * *

One of Commander Iverson’s assistants beckons him away from his friends and lunch. It’s been months since the cadets disappeared. Normally, one on one conversations with the Commander are cause for concern, but James isn’t a regular cadet. Besides, the assistant is flanked by Leif looking nonplussed, and he’ll confess to a murder he didn’t commit before believing she was foolish enough to get herself in trouble.

They collect Kinkade next. He eyes James, who offers a shrug in return. Leif’s mouth is puckered, but the assistant keeps glancing at her, so she doesn’t speak.

Nadia Rizavi leans on her heels outside Commander Iverson’s office, offering a jaunty wave when they turn the corner.

Goddamn it, he didn’t sign up for this. He swears, he’s subtly complaining in his next mission brief if they’re paired together and she goes rogue daredevil on him. Again. It isn’t fair to call her Keith’s cheerful female counterpart, because, well, she’s in front of Iverson’s office not looking like the world has turned against her. Besides, her worst sin is being occasionally tempted to soar faster than regulations allow. Sure, she’s easier to manage or ignore, but she’s also so radically different from the trouble he knows that James feels on uneven terrain.

Keith lingers on his skin, a healing wound not yet transformed to scar tissue.

Keith...quickly becomes the last thing on his mind as Commander Iverson presents them with simulations based on alien technology, entrusting them as the best pilots of their generation with the opportunity to learn and pilot.

“Aliens,” Leifsdottir says aloud once the Commander and staff leave them to process. She blinks. “Aliens.” She blinks again, nodding to herself.

James stretches a leg out and brushes a boot against hers in an attempt to reassure her. She turns her head to stare at him with wide eyes, confused. Okay, so Leif is fine.

Kinkade exhales louder than usual but looks solid otherwise.

Rizavi, in contrast, slams her hands against the table, shouting, “This is why I didn’t go to med school! Yes! Aliens are real! God, I wish I could tell my parents and get them off my back.”

This time, when James nudges at Leif, she accepts the reassurance with grace.

* * *

Time passes as quietly as it can for James, a popular flyboy in a military institution hiding everything but begging him to pretend otherwise. His team is reliable, if odd, but he thrives on challenge, on finding ways to communicate, even if his lone failure occasionally manifests in the corner of his eye, shaking jet black hair out of a helmet similar to the ones they train in.

Commander Sam Holt returns.

Time no longer passes quietly.

* * *

“Do you ever wish the Garrison told us things before we had to deal with them? Like, I’m sorry, but is that so much to ask? Hey, cadets, aliens are real and we know it not because of their craft but because they’re eventually going to kill us?” Rizavi’s a boisterous, maudlin drunk. He doesn’t know who she stole the alcohol from. He doesn’t want to know.

Kinkade is matching her shot for shot.

They’re giving themselves a single night to process. Come morning, they’ll join meetings with Commander Holt and start flying real ships again.

War. Jesus.

Leif is curled up on the floor next to the chair he’s slouched in. She’s staring at the ceiling, fingers a statico beat against her stomach. They’re both sober, by choice and by newly minted paranoid fear of what could happen if they’re not at peak awareness. If anyone shoves another realization on her before she can process, she’ll likely snap. James would help her hide the body as long as it wasn’t a superior officer.

He’s had Leif for years, since classrooms before the Garrison. He wouldn’t call them close friends, or even friends in the natural way he calls everyone friends, arms thrown over shoulders and happy group project partnerships. But he might be one of the only people who sees her distance and seemingly bored apathy as a cover for a terrifyingly sharp observational skills. He thinks he can rely on Lief, and with the new world order, that means the most.

Maybe she sees him too.

Kinkade breaks up Rizavi’s ramblings, voice hoarse, “We’re going to be fine.” Leif’s head lifts off the ground a few inches before thunking back down.

“Yeah,” James says, “We will be.” He moves a foot under Leif’s hair so she doesn’t hit her head on the concrete floor again. An eye darts to look at him, narrowed. He doesn’t remember concussion protocol, and he can’t handle that issue right now.

“We’ve been training for this, as the greatest pilots of our generation. The Galaxy Garrison has the smartest scientists, leaders, and engineers in the world. There’s nothing we can’t accomplish. We’ve got time, and soon,” and some part of James that stuck glow in the dark stars on his ceiling at the age of five awakens to say, “we’ll have some _really_ cool ships.”

Kinkade nods at him in approval, raising his glass.

Rizavi has tears in her eyes and leans across the table to brush against his arm. “That was inspirational.”

“It wasn’t,” Lief whispers softly against his leg. There’s a tiny quirk of amusement in her expression, so James knows it was a success.

* * *

Among the many things the Admirals neglected to mention to the MFE pilots were who the paladins were, or that they’re all going to get tension headaches over Keith and Lieutenant Shirogane again.

That revelation is reserved for a meeting a few days later, Commander Holt explaining more about the technology. It’s fascinating, if overly complicated. But then James sees _him_ , and he’s eighteen again, tensing up as if Keith will walk through the door and demolish all their misconceptions of what it means to pilot.

None of James’ training explained how to feel after a boy you haven’t seen for over a year, a boy you never had a healthy relationship with but fantasized about a future where you two could be partners in the sky, is shown to be a savior of the galaxy.

None of James’ training explained how to cope when you thought you had moved on but a war and the inevitability of what he can do bring it rushing back at the first hint of danger.

Keith had become a blip in time to James, a distant star in the course he plotted that he adapted away from.

He was never anything to Keith, and Keith, the real Keith, was never anything to him except a painful reminder he couldn’t wash out of his head. James doesn’t even keep a constant definition for what Keith meant to him: nothing, everything, a potential partner, a traitor, a dream, a doe eyed nightmare, uncontrollable, consistent, hot tempered, loyal, distant, open.

Keith.

There’s nothing traumatizing about their story, if you even call them a story. James knew whatever Keith wanted him to, which was nothing. James knew what the Galaxy Garrison wanted, what partnership between the two best pilots looked like. And while James lapped up the attention, the details, Keith ignored them, even as they pertained to Lieutenants Shirogane and West.

Keith was just an annoying kid who couldn’t keep up with the rules, and James wasted time thinking otherwise.

These are thoughts James repeats to himself as he feels his palms go sweaty, feels a hint of bile in his mouth every time Commander Holt explores the dangers of space, the dangers Keith, indestructible, beat.

Keith. Keith. Keith. Keith. Keith. Keith.

* * *

James stares at the diagrams on his desk. They flicker, as if they know he’s not focused on them.

“You okay?” Keith stands behind him, helmet carelessly dangling from his fingers. He must have rushed over as soon as he landed, abandoning Rizavi to Commander Holt’s ideas for team improvement. It’s among the many reasons why Keith, despite being the best pilot, doesn’t lead them.

“Been better. It’s just so much to take in.” The Galra reveal had been especially hard on James, cancelling his trip to Neptune’s moon, Triton. It would have been the furthest he’s gone, and the first time he was selected for a mission on his own merits and not as a training junior pilot.

Keith’s arms circle his waist, and he nuzzles his head in between James’ shoulder blades. “Nothing is going to take us down,” he vows. James turns around in his grip, placing his head on top of Keith’s. Nothing can take Keith down, and that, the belief a human is strong enough to last, is all James needs right now.

* * *

Sam Holt’s inventions remind him why he loves flying. It’s the swiftness of reaction time, the strength and power and thrill flowing through him with every beat of his heart. His team can feel it too, every time they try a new prototype, every time they learn a new maneuver.

Weeks pass. Months pass. Nearly a year passes.

It’s a lot to love, and a lot to fear, and a lot of team to manage. But they grow together, make up for each other’s flaws and gaps. James knows they’re the best of who remains. There isn’t a lot of energy to spare wondering what the alternate could have been if Kerberos never launched.

Then, the Galra arrive.

* * *

Civilians die, too slow to reach the safe zones and underground bunkers.

* * *

Soldiers die at the other Garrison bases, failing to create fully functioning barriers.

* * *

People die on command by Admiral Sanda. One of them is Lieutenant West, and James can’t shake off the shame in the years spent wanting what the man had with James’ counterpart, how James couldn’t make it work with Keith.

* * *

He finds Leifsdottir crouched down in front of the memorial, the wall of the dead as the cadets grimly call it. Earlier in the day, she found dozens of dead children in a mission to Platt City.

The war hits them all in different ways. He retreats into rules and regulations and confidence in his skills. Kinkade has his silence, and Nadia a ferociousness she takes out on others. Leif goes into her brain, spends too much time where she shouldn’t be in times like this.

“How bothersome,” she starts, and James stares at her, patiently waiting for her to continue, “the wall.”

“Well, yeah, Lief, I knew what you meant.” He didn’t.

“They list the dead by their first name and use an abbreviation for the last name. We’re a military institution. It should be the reverse.”

James sighs. “The Garrison want us to remember they were people first, soldiers second.” Maybe that thought is charming in peace time, but they died as soldiers. He thinks his team would be insulted to be listed otherwise.

“Don’t let them do this to us,” Leif orders, in her way, before they can leave.

“I won’t.” He can promise her this, if nothing else

“You don’t accept loss very easily,” Leifsdottir tells James, finally looking away from the wall, but staring at a spot behind him. It would be a compliment from anyone else, but that’s not what she means, moving past what they were just speaking of.

“Thanks Leif. Any other weakness you want to point out while you got me here?” He’s rueful as soon as the words escape him.

His team goes for the jugular, including each others’, trained war machines.

“It remains difficult for you to give up power or admit to being wrong, at least when it’s a choice you make and not based on faulty information. Despite how long we’ve known about sacrifice, you especially struggle in leaving people behind and don’t cope well in the aftermath. It’s not wise to look for comfort or guidance immediately after from you,” Leif concludes, as if James had asked her for the time and not a dissection of his character.

“Okay,” he says, because what else can he do on a day she handled dead bodies. He grabs for her hand and pulls her up, tugging her away from the memorial, away from the considerations of what he cannot do.

* * *

He envisions Keith K. on the memorial wall and forgets how to survive.

* * *

Leifsdottir spends her rare, free afternoons outside of the hanger reviewing the data on Voltron, patterning out their flight behaviors, their favored moves, or anything that can eek out another day of survival. She’s not alone in her pursuits, aiding dozens of scientists and strategists.

But that doesn’t stop her from being the one to rock their worlds in a meeting with Holt and other vital staff members.

“Commander Holt, what is the Voltron Coalition Show?” Leifsdottir sounds ambivalent, but James can detect an undercurrent of interest in her tone.

“Oh, it’s a propaganda video series Katie and her friends starred in. I kept it under the miscellaneous data because it won’t help the war effort, but I didn’t want to delete it before Colleen could watch. Consider it a home movie centered on embarrassing the paladins but they’re on a stage,” Sam says, cheerfully buoyant as usual when mentioning his daughter.

A squeak escapes Veronica, who looks at Sam like he’s simultaneously ended the war and granted her every desire in one fell swoop. Noticing her interest, he smiles and offers, “Once we’re done for the day, I can project it for you and anyone else interested. Perhaps it would be good for the MFE pilots to learn more about the humans behind Voltron.”

Veronica nods emphatically, joined by Rizavi. Kinkade’s eyes hone in on Sam too. Even if it’s proven useless, it might give the team a morale boost, and that’s always a necessity to consider.

Three hours later, James watches Veronica lose all composure, head on the table as she laughs uncontrollably. Lance is projected on the screen dancing with a ribbon. Rizavi’s shocked into silence, and poor Leisdottir must be regretting everything that led to her question. It’s painfully bad, but, even worse, it’s appalling hopeful. The message screams _Voltron Will Save You_. But Voltron is now gone.

When Katie Holt appears, her mother gasps in joy and laughs until she points out to the room that the science doesn’t make sense.

Science hasn’t made sense since Shirogane bolted with their cadets and Keith.

“Unfortunately, Keith was with the Blade of Marmora and couldn’t participate, so Allura acted in his place. Katie and her friends did give me a handful of his fight recordings if anyone wanted to watch.” Commander Holt addresses the room, but James feels strangely vulnerable, that the offer was for his team. That the offer was for him. He wonders what Commander Holt read into his frustrated questions about Voltron from so long ago, exhausted and knowing he could be a sacrifice for time.

“I’d like to see,” Kinkade requests.

It’s not a betrayal. Every atom of James rallies in fevered excitement at the thought of seeing Keith fighting. Keith was a force of nature even before an alien mercenary group honed him.

The wary side of James knows they’ve down this road before, however, and that Kinkade is definitely aware of his issues relating to Keith.

But again, it is not a betrayal. It’s an appropriate interest.

A decapitated head streaks across the screen. A girl’s voice shouts, “You shouldn’t be able to do that at this level!” Keith stands in the middle of a robot carnage, pieces strewn across the floor. Sweat glistens across his forehead, and he rubs a muscular arm against his face, messing up his hair even further. A red jacket, presumably his, lays in a crumpled heap in the corner of the training room.

Hunk sits cross-legged next to Katie Holt. She holds a laptop while he reattaches a torso and arm together. He looks at Keith in dismay, shaking his head. “We told you to be gentle on the heads while we troubleshoot.”

It’s surprisingly fitting for the first time James sees Keith since the Kerberos disaster.

“I was!” Keith protests. His voice has gotten deeper, gait longer as he paces across the room to them. He carelessly twirls a knife with glowing purple symbols, but no one seems concerned that this will end in disaster.

“Great reaction time, Keith!” Lieutenant Shirogane calls out, and James doesn’t know what to acknowledge first: the robotic hand, the tuft of white hair, or the grace in which Keith spins around the moment his friend makes himself known, beaming in gratitude, or as close as Keith comes to beaming.

Randomly, the clip ends, and James shares a confused look with Kinkade about why include it at all.

“Destroy him,” Katie Holt croons to a larger robot, this time while wearing her paladin gear. Behind her, Keith rolls his eyes. Red suits him. “Avenge your fallen brethren.”

Off-screen, they faintly hear the Lieutenant's laugher, the sound prompting a soft smile on Keith’s face as Katie Holt leaves them to fight.

It’s impossible to look away from Keith. As soon as a buzzer sounds, Keith runs across the floor, plunging his knife into the knee of the robot as he slides between its legs. Using the now collapsing robot as leverage to pull himself up, he uses a sword James has never seen before to tear the robot’s head off yet again.

“No more decapitation!” Someone new screams.

Another calls out, “Coran, how easy is it to remove blood from our armor? I feel Keith is going to make us find out one day.”

Veronica laughs, so it must be her brother.

“Oh that reminds me of-”

“Nice going, Lance.”

After half a dozen other short bursts, the final fight scene pops up, apparently lengthier. This time, there are numerous enemies of various shapes and sizes circling the room. Keith is wearing a skintight suit in shades of purple.

James swallows.

He’s swift, and he’s deadly. There’s no hesitation in his movements, all long legs and warrior poise. Many opponents fall, and all Keith has to show for the exertion is the displacement of his hair as he flows through the air, using the shoulders of one robot to propel him around the neck of another, bringing it down. At some point, he throws his knife at one, but almost immediately it is in his hands again, plunging into the chest of something else.

Eventually, Keith is the only one left standing, satisfied look in his eyes.

It’s the first time in so very long that James has allowed himself to miss Keith, the one he knew, all fighter’s impulse and belief in his abilities, not the one he dreamed of who listened as an equal partner.

Keith, in his natural habitat, all the more breathtaking for it.

A survivor in a galactic war. 

“Wow, if all Voltron can do that, maybe we have a chance,” Rozavi tells them, elbowing Leif jokingly and breaking the hushed silence in the room. James remembers she was in one of the other classes and only knew the rumors of Keith. He feels like he’s guarding something precious, the memories of what they know Keith is capable of.

He’s just thinking of Keith, and that alone makes the war just a little more bearable that night.

* * *

“I love you,” Keith says, lips pressed against James’ temple. It’s been an exhausting week, but they will always find time for this. They will always find time for each other.

“I love you too,” James replies, hoping the words are audible and not the silent gaps he’s been struggling with since Keith entered him, made him come twice, thighs sloppy and slick. This is where he belongs, and he doesn’t mind being pliant here, Keith, shining and happy above him, immovable.

It’s one of the hardest dreams he’s had to move on from, out of practice and disoriented from the feeling.

* * *

“Movement in Quadrant Gamma,” Rozavi calls out over the intercom between their cars. It’s been a quiet patrol, investigating what the resistance had heard was a rumored hotspot for drone activity but finding nothing. “We have visuals uploading in five.”

He flicks his screen on, and he feels like he’s staring in a romance film the female cadets used to worship before the war. All color, all sound, all attention is pinpointed on a singular figure, even as he’s surrounded by others.

It’s Keith.

It’s always going to be Keith, James thinks, startled, then increasingly angry as he watches them shoot at drones and wander cluelessly into traps. This isn’t what he expected of Voltron, of Keith, still sending adoring looks to his Lieutenant Shirogane instead of checking out his surroundings.

The engine roars to life under him, and he leaves Rizavi trailing behind in his quest to save them before they all die.

He feels foolish letting Keith slip in under his defenses yet again, but unconcerned.  
  
Afterall, Keith is just another war to fight.

It’s nothing he’s not used to.

**Author's Note:**

> so did we settle on jeith for this pairing?
> 
> This was originally going to be three times the length but because it was expanding, I thought to separate it and focus on three different times: before voltron arrives, during the war, and after season 7. Let me know if you guys think I should be continuing.
> 
> This fic/series might haunt me because I spent more time on it and making it perfect than any other fic, and I get mad at it and James and its just, let me rest. let people like this. 
> 
> [scream at me about this show](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/)


End file.
